


Merry Christmas, Lovebirds

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: There's never snow for Christmas on the beach, Murphy is a culinary genius, Raven has a boyfriend, and other presumed facts, too obvious to mention.
Relationships: John Murphy/Raven Reyes
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange





	Merry Christmas, Lovebirds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shen_Gong_Oops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shen_Gong_Oops/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Chopped Holiday Gift Exchange 2020--Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to my giftee and to all my Chopped friends!
> 
> The theme for this round was (Winter) Holidays and my assigned tropes were:  
> One character cautiously says “i’m going to kiss you now, okay?” or some variation of that  
> Mutual pining  
> A misunderstanding  
> Tattoos
> 
> My possible pairings were Murven, Bellarke, or Braven. This is obviously a Murven fic, but there's a tiny bit of Bellarke in there too.
> 
> Don't ask my why I went with this particular Aesthetic, I just did. Apologies in advance for errors in weather and general inaccuracies in vibe.

At noon on the third-to-last day before Christmas, Murphy leaves the cafe, with a single peppermint mocha and a small paper bag, and heads right, walking parallel to the ocean.

The cafe is decorated for the holidays, but only minimally, because he's never been much for ornamentation himself. When he bought the place, he let Clarke convince him to install a blackboard along the entire right-side wall. She said he could write up the day’s specials there, but more often than not, she hijacks large portions for her own drawings. The patrons add their various squiggles and doodles too, which takes away from the minimalist ambience he's going for. But still he doesn't throw away the chalk.

He's set the cash register and the display case in the center of the room, toward the back, so that he can lord about the place from his spot behind the counter, and arranged simple, uniform tables, of various sizes, along the walls and in the middle of the space. Several long light fixtures hang from the ceiling. The floor is a polished hardwood, which gleams beneath the lights and when touched by rays of sun.

Aside from the blackboard, he displays no artwork of any sort. Two large windows extend, nearly floor to ceiling, on either side of the door. With a view of the boardwalk and the beach and the water, what need does he have for art?

This month, also due to Clarke's persistence, he has hung several large red and silver balls from the ceiling of the cafe and trimmed the edges of the window with fake strings of greenery, even though he thinks they look out of place and grossly unreal. He even let her put a wreath on the door. It half-covers up the name of the place, _Murphy's_ , etched into the window in a bold all-caps font, but just about everyone in town knows who he is already. Even the tourists. Word of mouth travels fast about the best coffee, and the best pastries, along the whole coast.

He was able to afford his storefront in the first place because the shops that line the boardwalk are already diverse and bizarre. Glorified booths selling souvenirs. A tiny grocery store tucked into the corner. A surf shop that hasn't changed its decor, or its ownership, since 1966, where the passage of time is marked only in the length of, and amount of gray in, the owner's beard. And, of course, two doors down from Murphy's, Raven Reyes's tattoo parlor.

Glance too quickly along the street, and one could almost miss it: a narrow, slate gray building without a prominently displayed name. Only _Reyes Tattoos_ printed in red letters along the bottom of the window, and a blinking neon sign that says _OPEN_ , set in next to the door. Murphy noticed it right away, his very first week in town, only because Ms. Reyes herself was standing just outside. She was leaning against the railing of the boardwalk, watching the surf as it broke along the beach, wearing black jeans and heavy boots and a tank top that was too big for her, in muted gray. Even from his spot outside his brand-new business-slash-abode, he could read the expression on her face: distant and thoughtful and slightly wry. Like she was working something out in her head. He noticed that first, and then how fucking beautiful she was—the curves of her body, the glow of the early morning sun on her face—and only then, only after his heart had stopped working properly in his chest, did he take a look at her arm. It was inked, shoulder to wrist, with a complex design of cogs and gears. He thought of it then, and has thought of it ever since, as the robot sleeve.

He thought of her then, and has thought of her ever since, as maybe the future love of his life.

Not that he'd ever tell her that he fell that fast, or that every new moment spent with her, every conversation with her, every accidental brush of his hand against her hand or bump of his arm against her arm, every time that she looks at him and catches his eye and doesn't let go, has built up that stuttering, painful, terrifying feeling in his chest, turning it into something so large that he couldn’t begin to break it down now, even if he tried.

His friends don't know about the size or severity of the problem but they do know he lusts after the proprietor of _Reyes Tattoos_ and, assholes that they are, they insist that he do something about it. Maybe, for once, they're right.

He passes by two tourists in matching holiday t-shirts and is almost run over by a small stampede of children wearing antlers, and then, at last, he reaches her door. The bell above jingles as he slips inside. All quiet within. There's no one behind the counter or waiting in the entrance way, and no one comes out to investigate the ringing of the bell. He peers cautiously through the half-drawn curtain into the back of the shop. No customers there, either, but he does catch sight of Raven, talking to what appears to be her apprentice, based on the snaking black pattern visible on her arm. The younger Blake, of course. Small towns, he's learned since moving here, are also small worlds.

Safely assured that causing a ruckus won't lead to anyone's skin getting permanently defiled, he steps up to the counter and taps gracelessly on the service bell. It tings out a high, irritated sound. "Special delivery for Raven Reyes!" he calls. "Raven Reyes, please come to the service desk!"

The light sound of conversation stops immediately. Murphy takes his hand away from the bell, and lets the silence grow.

Then, with a dramatic swoosh of fabric, Raven throws back the curtain and reveals herself, stony-faced and silent, against a background of neon lights and art-crowded walls.

Murphy has steadfastly refused to let even his love for her sway him into getting a tattoo himself. But he will admit that he finds the back of the shop, even with its trays of mysterious tools, oddly comforting. He likes the thick curtains that separate it from the front lobby and the employee area in the back, and the black and white checked tile floor, and the ornate mirror with the gilt frame, right across from the door. He catches sight of himself in it for a moment: familiar enough, with his newly short hair and band tee, his face red from the strong wind that is the closest their town will ever get to cold and snow.

"What is it now, Murphy?" Raven asks, with put-upon annoyance.

He holds up the coffee cup and the bag. "I come bearing pre-Christmas gifts."

"Oh, well, in that case." She drops the sour look at once and replaces it with a genuine grin. Murphy slides the cup toward her as she walks up behind the counter. Then he sets the bag down next to it.

"What, nothing for me?" Little Blake asks, as she watches them, narrow-eyed and suspicious, from a few feet back.

"Next time," Murphy lies, and Blake sticks out her tongue at him.

Raven has already snatched up the bag and peered inside. She flicks her gaze up at Murphy. "Java chip?" she asks, low and secret, as if the contents of the bag were something illicit or illegal, instead of one of the muffins from his display.

He nods once.

"With the stuff on the bottom?"

"It's melted chocolate, Reyes, not _stuff_." He rolls his eyes. "But yes."

"You are a culinary genius." She rolls the top of the bag shut again, in one clean motion, and sets it down on the counter, then reaches out and decisively grabs both of Murphy's wrists. Feels like she's pinning him down. And he's not sure if it's that sense of being trapped and bested, or just how squarely she looks him in the eye, but his heart skips a beat again. "Truly the best."

He can feel his mouth start to open, as if he had an answer. But no sounds come.

"She hasn't eaten breakfast this morning," Little Blake cuts in. "So don't get a big head about it."

The words don't break the spell, but they do make him aware of just how idiotic he must seem, staring slack-jawed at Raven like a fool, so he pulls his hands back and shoves them in his pockets, and shrugs. "Saying I'm a culinary genius is like saying there won't be snow this Christmas," he says. "Too obvious to mention."

"Yeah, you're right, your head doesn't need any more inflating," Raven agrees. She turns her attention to the coffee, takes a long drink. "Mmmm, minty. Extra shot?"

"Extra shot."

Little Blake makes an impatient, scoffing noise. "Why do you ask questions when you already know the answers?"

A fair point. He catches Raven's eye over her coffee cup, and finds her smiling a small, amused, secret smile, just for him. _That kid_ , she might be saying, _she just doesn't get us_.

It's true enough they have their well-worn scripts, their calls-and-response, their traditions. Their carefully planned methods of being easy with each other. Sometimes he likes to think that Raven needs these as much as he does, because moments of honesty mean too much, promise too much: like the evening they sat on the beach, shoulder to shoulder, exchanging secrets with the moon just as well as with each other, unable to speak quietly over the sound of the waves. The vastness of the ocean forcing honesty from them. When the wind picked up, he gave her his jacket. She'd taken his hand for a moment and squeezed. And he'd thought, maybe she thought about him, too, in odd, sharp shards of moments every day.

He clears his throat and says, "Speaking of Christmas," so loudly that Raven raises her eyebrows at him.

She swallows her gulp of coffee down. "Were we?"

"Yes. I'm hosting this dinner, gift-exchange thing. At my place. If you don't have any plans." He pauses a moment. "You don't have to bring any gifts."

Raven doesn't answer right away. She just stares at him, her own mouth slightly open.

"Your servant is coming," Murphy adds, pointing with his chin over Raven's shoulder.

"Apprentice," Blake corrects.

Murphy ignores her, tries again for something that sounds like a real question. "If you... wanted to come...?"

Raven shakes her head abruptly, as if breaking herself from a trance, and bites the corner of her lip. "Oh," she says. "That sounds great, Murphy, really. I would go. But I do already have plans." She half-shrugs, apologetic.

Instead of looking at her, he traces the pattern of gears on her arm. He can tell she's watching him, but the stare feels like it's laced with pity, and that's worse than rejection. That's worse than when she adds, "I'm spending the day with Finn."

As if he should know who Finn is. Boyfriend, he has to assume. Serious boyfriend, who she spends the holidays with, who she just, somehow, thought he knew about, because _everybody_ knew—the crushing vice-grip of being rejected by a popular girl in high school, except he's not in high school, so the feeling is backlit by a neon-green slime of shame. He knows he's nodding, but his body feels controlled, puppet-like, by strings he cannot see.

"Sure," he says. "Of course." He manages a half-smile. "I'm glad you have somewhere to be."

More false words were never spoken. He could kick himself.

Raven reaches out and squeezes his forearm, and some instinct deep within him must hate himself, because the gesture feels tinged with regret. That’s the last thing he needs to let himself believe. "I'm glad you do, too," she says, and then, with some reluctance, finally lets go.

*

Murphy's apartment, tucked onto the second floor above the cafe, is big enough to hold six people and a six-foot-tall fake Christmas tree, but not quite large enough to accommodate a full Christmas dinner. So Clarke and Monty spread out a tablecloth on the floor instead. "Let the fourth annual friends-mas officially begin," Clarke announces, as Bellamy sets the turkey down in the center, and Jasper starts handing out utensils and plates.

"Yes, let the festivities commence," Murphy echoes, toneless and dull. Clarke flips him off, and he returns the gesture. Cooking all day has distracted him, but the heartbreak he'd always intended to avoid is coming for him. He takes his place across from Jasper at the floor-table, and watches Little Blake fiddling with the electric candles.

"Hey," she says, shaking one of the older models until the false light on the top stops flickering, "that's a bummer about Raven."

"Yeah, I really thought she'd come," Clarke adds. She sighs, surprisingly forlorn. Just bitter, Murphy thinks, about not being right.

"She was definitely into you," Jasper agrees.

Murphy looks to Bellamy to stop the inane chatter, but he's concentrating on carving the turkey and doesn't even look up. He just grunts, but whether he means _shut up_ or _totally, so into you_ , it's impossible to tell.

So Murphy has to take the task into his own hands. "Can we not talk about it? I asked her to come, she said no—it's fine."

He gets a few mumbled apologies in response, and then several moments of blissful silence, punctuated only by the passing of plates and the clinking of silverware, a few requests for more of this or less of that as they make up plates for each other.

"You could have told me she has a boyfriend, you know," Murphy adds, turning on Little Blake, when he can't take the unsaid anymore.

"Hey, I didn't know!" She holds up one hand innocently. "She's never mentioned anyone named Finn before. We don't really talk about personal life stuff anyway."

"Are we even sure this Finn person is a boyfriend?" Clarke asks. She's adding extra sweet potatoes to Bellamy's plate, and the pointed, concentrated look on her face makes her appear as if she's scheming over the dish. "I mean, I've seen the way she flirts with you when she comes into the cafe. More importantly, I've seen the way she _looks_ at you."

Murphy grunts and passes the plate.

When he doesn't ask the inevitable question, Jasper, unhelpfully, asks it for him: "How does she look at him?"

"Like she's in love," Clarke answers, with a single, satisfied nod.

Murphy rolls his eyes. "You don't—"

"In _love_ ," Clarke insists. Then she turns her gaze on Bellamy, her own expression softening, and Murphy glances over to find him looking downright bashful.

 _Pathetic_.

"Yeah, and you also think she doesn't like you," he says. "So I don't think I can trust your judgment on this."

"I don't think she doesn't like me," Clarke corrects. "I think she's... cool to me. Like she's forcing herself to be polite."

"You're making this uh-up," Little Blake cuts in, her voice a sing-song, and Murphy stabs at his turkey too aggressively with his fork.

"Can we just—stop talking about this?" he asks. "For real?"

The others agree to back off, with only minimal reluctance, and the conversation drops more decisively this time, quickly pivoting instead to the latest in Clarke's father’s wedding news. But Murphy only half-listens. He's still thinking about Raven, despite himself.

He thinks about her all through dinner, and clean-up, and as the presents are pulled out from under the tree. He hears Jasper in the background—"Monty, you shouldn't have!"—and recognizes just enough of his tone to feel wary. But he doesn't even look up to see what the gift is.

His own Secret Santa this year is Clarke, and when he sees her name on the card, he figures she's gotten him something impractical and artsy that he won't know what to do with. Fair enough: he’s hard to shop for. But instead, he unwraps a set of six new coffee mugs.

"Since I broke two of yours this year," she says, with an embarrassed shrug.

"That's restitution, not a gift, Griffin," he answers, but he's smiling, and the expression is genuine despite his poor mood. He leans over and hugs her awkwardly over the pile of discarded wrapping paper between them.

Monty and Jasper gather the wrapping, gift bags, and boxes and make a pile of festive holiday debris in the corner, while the Blake siblings debate the merits of their respective favorite Christmas films. Another holiday tradition. But it feels stuffy this year, the little apartment just a tad _too_ little. Murphy extricates himself from the mess and heads out for a breath of fresh air.

The night envelopes him, warm and mild, as he steps out of the cafe door—feels more like springtime used to, than like any childhood Christmas he can remember. Only the blinking lights around the storefront windows and the wreaths hanging below the streetlamps, already withered from the dryness of the air, serve as reminders of the season. He crosses the boardwalk and leans on the railing, looking out toward the beach and the dark rush of the waves up the shore. Almost deserted now. Everyone safe at home with their family or friends. If he concentrates, he can remember just why he picked this spot, when he had nowhere to go and anywhere to go: that at certain quiet moments, the powerful beat of the surf and the vastness of the water make him feel like he's alone at the edge of the world.

A car door slams somewhere off to his left. He glances over and sees a yellow cab pulling away from the curb, a single, familiar figure standing spot lit beneath the streetlamp, watching it go.

His first instinct is to wave to her. His second is to duck back inside before she can see him. Caught between the two, he ends up frozen, perfectly visible himself beneath the nearest light. So when Raven turns to step onto the boardwalk, the first thing she sees is him.

She pauses for a moment. Hitches her bag up higher on her shoulder. He raises his hand in greeting, and that gesture, perhaps, breaks the spell; she smiles at him and waves back and then jogs over.

Before he entirely knows what is happening, she's wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. He circles his arms loosely around her in return. He's never been this close to her before, able to poke his nose against the soft skin behind her ear, to feel stray strands of her hair tickling his cheek. To smell her, the scent of rose shampoo and sweat and the stuffy aftermath of travel still clinging to her clothes.

She squeezes him extra tight, then finally lets go. The warmth of her smile when she looks at him makes him step back, how genuine and soft she looks—how happy and at ease she looks, how _relieved_.

"Merry Christmas, Murphy. I didn't expect to see you here," she says. They’re not hugging anymore, but she’s still holding him steady with her hands on his arms, as if examining him, or trying to discern if he were real.

"I live here," he answers, and gestures up to the light still glowing from his apartment above the cafe.

"Oh, I know. I mean, outside. I thought you'd be upstairs with your friends."

"Just needed a minute." His eyes narrow, and Raven belatedly, and with a first hint of embarrassment, drops her hands back down to her sides. "What are you doing here? What happened to Christmas with Finn?"

"I just got back. It was a nice time, but I'd rather sleep in my own bed. I was going to go straight home but I left so fast last night that I forgot my damn phone at work. So I thought I'd just grab that now and then walk back..." She trails off, glances over Murphy's shoulder to the darkened tattoo parlor, then back to him. Her gaze flicks back and forth over his face. He wonders if she's trying to read him, and what he might be accidentally giving away in his stare. Why the moment feels too long, award with the unsaid.

He opens his mouth to say, _I won't keep you_ , but instead he asks, "Have you known him long?" He’s leaning with one arm on the railing now, trying to be casual, but inside his guts have twisted themselves into hard knots. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds mean, which isn't fair. This isn't a betrayal.

"Known who?" She frowns, and he imagines himself kissing the small wrinkle between her brows. "Oh—Finn? Well, yeah. He's my brother."

Murphy blinks. Raven's frown softens, slowly, into a gentle smile, like this is a mildly funny joke she's telling. She keeps staring at him and his blank face, waiting for him to catch on.

All he can manage is an eventual, choked reply. "Your _brother_?”

"Yeah—well, foster brother. I told you my mom up and left when I was eight? The Collins family took me in." She takes a half-step closer, craning her head to catch Murphy's eye, though he steadfastly won't look at her now. There's no hiding the embarrassed red flush to his face, beneath the streetlamp's glow. "Who did you think he was?"

Murphy shrugs. "Dunno. Boyfriend or something.”

Raven laughs, a sound so bright and so startling that it rings out like holiday bells in the darkness.

It’s the last sound he expected from her, and he retreats from it, scowling down at his shoes. "It's not that funny."

"Yes it is! We've known each other almost our whole lives! He's like... ugh, the thought of kissing him? Awful. Don't make me picture it." She shudders.

Murphy scoffs and turns away again, crossing his arms on the railing and facing out toward the beach.

After a moment, her own giddiness wearing off slowly, Raven settles into place next to him. She’s close enough for her arm to bump up against his arm. Then she sways even closer, their shoulders jostling, and admits, "It's not that funny. But it is pretty ironic."

"Ironic?"

"Yeah. You thought Finn was my boyfriend, while I'm over here thinking... you know, if you didn't have a girlfriend—"

He jerks his gaze toward her, a wary, nervous feeling stiffening along his spine. "What girlfriend?"

"Clarke." Raven stares at him expectantly, as if this were obvious. Waiting for him to confirm the sky is blue. When he doesn't, she goes on, "You're always talking about her. She decorates your menu board. She made you put up the holiday wreath. Her dad's getting remarried and you might go to the wedding... Am I wrong?"

Murphy tries to laugh, but the noise comes out choked, his only smile a wry half-curl of his lip. He shrugs his shoulders up toward his ears and stares out toward the beach again. Another wave is cresting, mysterious and dark, along the shore. The thinnest of breezes, high above them, wafts through the palms. Shadows of fronds rustle and sway against the sky.

"You're right about it being ironic," he says.

Raven doesn't say anything for a long moment, but he can tell that she's smiling. That she understands. They listen to the sound of the waves, watch the crest and fall of the ocean, shining black beneath the nearly full, luminous moon.

"She's just an old friend—"

"I got that."

Raven reaches over blindly and covers his hand with her hand.

"There's a Christmas movie marathon going on upstairs," Murphy says, after another long moment. "If you wanted to join...?"

"I think I could handle some Christmas movies," Raven agrees.

She doesn't let go of his hand as they turn away from the ocean, back toward the inviting glow of the apartment above the cafe. Instead, she twines his fingers with her fingers. Confession still sits on the tip of his tongue. But this feels like a good step, an invitation or a promise. He's not used to it, and he knows the expression must look odd on his face, but he's grinning like an absolute fool.

A few paces shy of the door, Raven stops them both abruptly. She hitches her bag up higher on her shoulder again, and leads him aside, so they're standing next to the window, the shadows of ornaments barely visible through the glass. "Murphy—"

She cuts herself off, seems to be getting the feel of the rest of the words in her mouth. Her gaze is unsettled.

"Something you need to say, Reyes?" he prods. "Because Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer waits for no man."

That gets a smile out of her, at least.

"Except Santa,” Murphy adds.

"And you think I'm not Santa-level?" She rolls her eyes. "Please." And then, more seriously, pulling him a step forward with booth her hands in his: "I really do want to say this. Actually say this."

He wants to tell her to go ahead, to just say it, if she needs the unspoken to be made real. He's fine with the too-hard beating of his heart. But when she hesitates again, he lets go of her hands and takes her by the arms instead, his hands on her forearms, his thumb tracing the edge of a gear that pokes out from beneath her t-shirt sleeve. He could press her back against the windowpane if he wanted. He could kiss her, and that would say more than words could do.

And he almost does. He leans in, all but nose to nose, mouth to mouth with her—

Then startles. Shocked, and frozen still. Something soft is falling down around them. A flake of it hits his cheek, the bridge of his nose. He pulls back just enough to see small white snowflakes catching in Raven's lashes.

A flurry of white is falling down all around them. It gathers in their hair and on their shoulders. It scatters at their feet.

Awed, they both tilt their heads back at the same moment and look up. This impossible winter storm is breaking, not from the clear, black vault of the sky, but from the apartment just above them. An arm pokes out around the strange box blocking the window, waving awkwardly, and Jasper's voice calls down, "Check it out! The snow machine works!"

"We see that," Raven shouts back, laughing, and waves back up at him.

"Merry Christmas, lovebirds!" a different voice yells. Murphy thinks it sounds suspiciously like Little Blake, and he would be annoyed—at the interruption or the eavesdropping or the obnoxious friends who think his business is their business—but to be irritated in this moment does not seem in keeping with the Christmas spirit. It is snowing, after all.

For a few minutes, it's white Christmas on the boardwalk. He steps back, caught off guard by the way Raven throws her arms around him, with happiness, in a burst of utter joy—then he wraps his arms around her in return, holding her close.

When she pulls back, he notices the pattern of snowflakes already melting in her hair, the look in her eyes warm enough to be a promise, sharp enough to be a dare. "Lovebirds, huh?" she says.

"It's what the people want," he answers. Without noticing, he's started to sway them back and forth. Not quite dancing, but, like the snow, a decent facsimile. "Hey, Reyes?"

"Yeah?"

He half-smiles, hesitant now because this moment feels unreal. "I'm—going to kiss you now, okay?"

She reaches up and kisses his nose. "Murphy, I thought you'd never ask."

The snow keeps falling, creating their own private winter wonderland around them, as he pulls her close and finally lets his mouth press against hers. She's smiling into the kiss, and his own joyful laughter threatens to break it, too. But they hold on. They hold on to each other for a very long time, still swaying back and forth, still laughing with pure happiness and the relief of having found each other, as above them, higher even than the manic flurry of snow, a scattering of stars gleams in the clear, December night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find a moodboard for this fic reblogged to my tumblr [@kinetic-elaboration](https://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/638685394630770688).


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